Chapter 13
FINN
The Vegetable Lesson
(Or How to Look Like the Perfect Little Couple)
The sounds coming from the kitchen wake me up.
I glance at my phone screen.
8:30 a.m.
It’s Saturday morning, so technically I’m not working today. Not that I’ve exactly been overworked since arriving in Glenfield...
Ironically, though, having no patients is almost more exhausting than having too many.
I stay in bed for a few minutes, hoping the noise will stop.
It doesn’t.
I hear mugs clinking, a kettle whistling, then someone humming softly.
With a sigh, I drag myself out of bed, pull a T-shirt over my pajama pants, and stumble downstairs.
The shared kitchen is flooded with sunlight.
Mary is standing at the stove wearing that fluffy robe again—the one that makes her look like a polar bear. Her auburn hair is loose, falling in messy waves over her shoulders.
I stop in the doorway.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her like this in the morning. No makeup. No carefully arranged hair. No armor for facing the world.
Just... her.
She looks up and startles slightly.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Hey.”
She recovers first.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes. Please.”
I sit at the table while she pours me a mug.
The coffee is strong.
Exactly the way I like it.
She sits across from me with her own cup, and we drink in silence.
Not a comfortable silence.
More the kind that says: We live together now, but neither of us knows how to handle it.
Mary gently sets her cup down and looks directly at me.
For one brief second, I completely lose my train of thought.
“The village market’s today.”
“And?”
“Everyone’s going to be there.”
I immediately understand where she’s going with this.
“You want us to go together.”
“It would help. You know, couple things. Grocery shopping together and all that.”
I grimace into my coffee.
“We could meet there separately if you’d rather,” she adds quickly. “Or not go at all…”
I hesitate.
The idea of spending my morning pretending to be in a relationship in front of all of Glenfield isn’t exactly appealing.
But then again, this is the whole reason we started this ridiculous plan.
“No,” I finally decide. “We might as well go together. We live in the same place anyway.”
Mary smiles.
“Meet downstairs in an hour?”
“Okay.”
She stands, takes her mug, and disappears upstairs. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, then her bedroom door closing softly.
I stay there staring into my coffee, wondering how exactly my life ended up here.
An hour later, we climb into my Land Rover.
Mary’s wearing jeans, a green sweater, and a jacket. Her perfume carries fresh floral notes.
Inside the confined space of the car, the scent is distracting.
I discreetly crack open the window.
“You hot?” she asks.
“No. I just needed air.”
She gives me a curious look but doesn’t comment.
The drive to the village square takes five minutes.
The market is already crowded when we arrive. There are stalls selling vegetables, cheese, meat, local crafts, and villagers everywhere—talking, laughing, bargaining.
I park and shut off the engine.
Mary turns toward me.
“Ready?”
“No.”
She laughs.
“Perfect. Me neither.”
We get out of the car.
The second we’re outside, Mary slips her arm through mine.
I instantly tense.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “You look like I’m holding you hostage.”
“I’m not tense.”
“You’re stiff as a board. If you keep acting like this, nobody’s going to believe us.”
I make a conscious effort to loosen my shoulders.
“That’s better,” she says with a crooked smile.
We start walking between the stalls arm in arm.
I’m hyperaware of her closeness. Her shoulder brushing my arm. Her perfume lingering between us. The way she chats with vendors like we do this every weekend.
“Morning, Mary!” a woman behind a vegetable stand calls out.
“Morning, Mrs. Murray! How are the vegetables this week?”
“Perfect! Want some?”
Mary examines the produce with a level of seriousness that surprises me. She weighs several vegetables in her hands, checking firmness and color.
“I’ll take carrots, potatoes, and leeks,” she finally decides.
While Mrs. Murray bags them, Mary turns toward me.
“You want anything?”
I stare suspiciously at the vegetables.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you want vegetables?”
“I don’t know which ones to choose...”
Mary rolls her eyes dramatically.
“You’re a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to know what’s healthy?”
“Knowing what’s healthy and knowing how to pick fresh vegetables are two very different skills.”
What I don’t tell her is that I’m irrationally worried about the villagers’ reactions if I pick the vegetables McKinnon hated.
Or the ones he loved.
For all I know, every single choice I make here is somehow wrong.
Mary looks at me like I’m hopeless.
“Okay. Lesson number one: vegetables.”
We spend the next forty minutes wandering from stall to stall.
Mary teaches me how to pick tomatoes—firm but not hard—carrots—bright color, not soft—and cheese, which apparently involves an absurdly complicated set of rules depending on the type.
I listen despite myself, oddly fascinated.
We run into Duncan Fraser near the meat stand.
“You two shopping together?” he asks with a grin that’s far too wide.
Mary answers without hesitation.
“Finn doesn’t know how to choose vegetables, so I’m teaching him.”
Duncan laughs.
I brace myself for a comment about my former city life, but instead he surprises me.
“Now that’s love right there. Teaching a man the basics.”
Then he walks away before I can point out that:
a) this is not love, and
b) I’m not completely incompetent.
Mary looks at me with amused satisfaction.
“You want to argue?”
“No.”
“Wise decision.”
We continue through the market.
I buy apples. Mary buys fresh bread.
Then we pass a flower stand.
Mary pauses to admire the bouquets.
Without really thinking about it, I ask the vendor:
“How much for the white heather?”
Mary turns toward me in surprise.
“Five pounds,” the vendor replies.
I pay and hand the bouquet to Mary.
“To thank you,” I say awkwardly. “For the... vegetable lesson.”
She takes the flowers, her cheeks faintly pink.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
She holds the bouquet against her chest, and something in her expression makes me forget for one dangerous second that we’re supposed to be acting.
The drive back is quieter.
Mary keeps the bouquet of white heather on her lap, her fingers lightly tracing the stems.
“White heather means good luck,” she says softly.
“I know.”
She looks at me.
“So you did that on purpose?”
“Maybe.”
A long silence settles between us.
“That was nice today,” she finally says.
I nod, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Yeah.”
And it’s true.
It was nice.
Maybe a little too natural.
Back at the guesthouse, we unload the groceries together.
In the shared kitchen, we put everything away side by side.
“I’m making stew tonight,” Mary announces while putting the carrots into the fridge. “Want some?”
I look at her in surprise.
“You’d cook for me?”
She rolls her eyes.
“I don’t survive entirely on frozen meals. Unlike some people.”
“How do you know I eat frozen meals?”
She shrugs.
“The trash can.”
I’m not sure whether to feel embarrassed or amused.
Probably both.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll accept the stew, but only if you teach me how to make it.”
Mary smiles.
“Deal.”
The smell filling the kitchen later that evening is incredible.
Spices. Slow-cooked meat. Something deeply warm and comforting.
Mary stands at the stove stirring a large pot. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail now, and the polar bear robe has been replaced with an oversized sweatshirt.
“It’s almost ready,” she says without turning around.
I set the table.
Five minutes later, she places a steaming bowl of stew in front of me. Carrots. Potatoes. Tender meat falling apart under the fork.
I take one bite.
It’s delicious.
“This is good,” I say.
Mary sits across from me looking deeply pleased with herself.
“We make a pretty good team.”
We eat quietly for several minutes before Mary asks:
“How was your week?”
I glance up.
“Better than usual, I guess. At least three appointments weren’t canceled.”
“That’s progress.”
“I suppose.”
“And the patients?”
I tell her about Old Angus repeatedly coming in with imaginary symptoms, Mrs. Campbell finally admitting she just needed someone to talk to, young Hendricks breaking his arm after falling out of a tree.
Mary listens carefully, asking questions.
Then she tells me her own stories. The border collie with gastritis. The cat refusing to eat. Ragnar biting a tourist.
“He bit someone?” I ask, startled.
“Just a small bite. The tourist tried to pet him without permission.”
“Ragnar never gives permission.”
“Exactly.”
We finish eating.
Mary stands to clear the table, and I stand too.
“I’ll do the dishes.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I ask. “I do, in fact, possess fully functional hands.”
“I noticed.”
We settle in front of the sink side by side.
I wash. She dries.
It feels strangely...
comfortable.
Like we’ve been doing this for years.
At one point, our hands brush when I pass her a plate.
The contact is brief.
Electric.
Neither of us says anything.
Movement outside the window catches my attention.
Ragnar is standing there.
The sheep watches us intently for a full minute before slowly wandering away again.
“I think Ragnar’s spying on us,” I say.
Mary laughs.
“He does that all the time. He watches you.”
“To make sure I’m not doing anything stupid?”
“Probably.”
When everything’s cleaned up, Mary dries her hands on a dish towel.
“Thanks for today. And for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
A strange moment passes where neither of us seems to know what to say next.
Finally, Mary breaks the silence.
“Good night, Finn.”
“Good night.”
She heads upstairs. I hear her footsteps, then the soft click of her bedroom door closing.
I remain alone in the kitchen.
On the counter, Mary placed the white heather in a vase.
The delicate flowers almost glow in the dim light.
And suddenly, I realize something.
For the first time since arriving at the castle, the guesthouse no longer feels like a temporary prison. It no longer feels like a place where I’m hiding while waiting for the chance to leave.
It’s starting to feel like something else.
Something dangerously close to home.
And that terrifies me.
Because home means permanence.
Home is something people build.
And home is exactly the thing I promised myself I would never search for again.